


Heartache Number Two

by iriswallpaper



Series: Heartaches By The Number [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Cheating, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Infidelity, Infidelity, John in Denial About His Sexuality, Kissing, Love Triangles, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mutual Pining, Pining, Poor Life Choices, Season/Series 03, everyone is morally bankrupt, poor decisions, scenes in between/concurrent with S3 on-screen events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5446328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock will not go down without a fight. He's planning John's wedding while also planning on how to win John for himself.</p><p>Scene-based fics that are concurrent with events in S3. This is not an S3 fix-it fic.</p><p>HEED THE TAGS because everyone is morally bankrupt in this fic.</p><p>Title from the song "Heartaches by the Number," a popular country song written by Harlan Howard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartache Number Two

**Author's Note:**

> MissDavis and DulcimerGecko graciously offered to beta this fic. All my thanks to them!

_And heartache number two was when you come back again  
You came back but never meant to stay_

 

 

“I brought sandwiches!” Mary called merrily as she shucked her coat and draped it over the sofa. “Figgered you wouldn’t think of lunch.”

Sherlock stared out the window, violin and bow held loosely at his sides. Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed John and Mary approach or even heard them on the stairs. He turned and laid the instrument and bow in their case and closed it carefully, letting his hands linger on the clasps. He straightened his spine, bracing himself before facing his best friend and his fiancee. His best friend, who, nine hours before, he’d sucked off and begged to cancel his wedding. Sherlock flushed at the memory.

He adopted his usual neutral expression and crossed the room to kiss Mary’s cheek and take the picnic basket from her hands. “This needs to be refrigerated, I assume.”

Mary nodded. “Yes, there’s ham and cheese subs and pimento spread on white, with crusts on like you like it.” 

Sherlock glanced at John as he passed his chair. John had picked up a newspaper and pretended to be engrossed. After moving some specimens around, Sherlock unpacked the basket into the fridge then left the empty basket on the kitchen table. When he came back to the living room, Mary was sorting fabric swatches into piles at the desk. 

“I thought we could settle on the bridesmaid dresses today. And the flowers, depending on how it goes with the dresses.” Mary sounded as casual and friendly as she’d ever been.

And John still hadn’t said a word, or even glanced in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock took the other desk chair, facing away from John, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Mary had a stack of bridal magazines, each with several pages tagged with Post-It notes. He pored over the marked pictures of bridesmaid dresses with her, discussing the merits and demerits of each. Sherlock asked innumerable questions about the bridesmaids: their heights, weights, color of their skin and hair, bust-waist-hip measurements, the ratio of their arms to their torsos, until Mary laughed and pulled out her phone. She pulled up photographs of three young women. Two of them looked utterly forgettable to Sherlock and the third, whom Mary identified as the maid of honor, Sherock considered to be aesthetically pleasing. He suggested to Mary that the other two bridesmaids wear a different style of dress from the maid of honor. Mary liked the idea because it would give her the option to pick both of her favorite dresses.

Sherlock did not realize how much time passed until he heard John rise from his chair and go into the kitchen. Glancing over his shoulder, Sherlock saw John bending to examine the contents of the fridge. “There’s beer in the door, or bottled water if you’d rather,” he called out.

John straightened and gave Sherlock a startled look. They exchanged a long glance before John turned away and grabbed a water bottle. He slammed the fridge door - hard - and stalked back to his chair.

Mary gave John a sharp glance then rolled her eyes at Sherlock, exasperated. “It wouldn’t hurt you to offer to get me and Sherlock a drink, John. Since we’re doing all the work while you read the papers.” She gave Sherlock a half-smile. “You kept him out too late last night, Sherlock. You know how grumpy he is when he doesn’t get enough sleep.”

Sherlock shot Mary a sharp glance. He relaxed when he saw her easy smile and amused twinkle in her eyes. He hummed in response and picked up the stack of fabric swatches, fanning them out in his hands then laying them on the desk in between them.

“Based on the skin tone and hair color of your bridesmaids, I suggest sticking to a color in the purple or violet range.” Sherlock slid a few fabric samples from the fan. “This is nice.” The deep aubergine color echoed his favorite shirt.

“Too dark for a May wedding, Sherlock. How about this?” Mary picked out a sample in a medium lilac color. She held it up and turned toward John. “What do you think? For the bridesmaid dresses.”

John glanced at the fabric sample and then Mary’s face. His expression lightened just a fraction. “It’s fine, Mary. Whatever you want.”

Mary turned back to Sherlock with an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, you’d think he wasn’t even getting married, for all the attention he pays to the planning.” Sherlock blanched. When it was clear to him that Mary had made a general observation, not a reference to the conversation he’d had with John the night before, he relaxed again.

Sherlock’s phone chimed while they were eating the sandwiches and apple slices that Mary had plated up. He took it out of his trouser pocket, glanced at it, then repocketed it. John glanced at him. “Lestrade,” Sherlock murmured, sounding bored.

“Anything interesting?” John asked. 

Sherlock hummed again, neither confirming John’s question nor denying it. John glanced from him to Mary, then returned to his newspaper. Sherlock’s phone chimed again. He ignored it.

Then again.

And again.

“Oh for god’s sake, Sherlock, get your phone. If Lestrade needs you, we can do this later,” Mary grumbled around a bite of sandwich. 

On the fifth chime, Sherlock put down his pimento cheese sandwich and pulled out his phone. He typed out a response and quickly hit SEND. Mary gathered up the magazines and fabric samples. “Guess I’d better go. John, try not to be too late. I’m still tired from trying to wait up for you last night.” Mary sounded amused and not at all put out to cut their wedding planning session short.

“You want me to stay?” John rose when Mary did, sounding irritated that Mary presumed he’d stay behind when she left.

Mary crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek. “Of course, go on with Sherlock. I’ll take the car. You can get a cab home when you’re done.” 

John glanced at Sherlock then returned her affection, kissing her cheek. They walked to the doorway together. “I’ll just see her down,” John said. His eyes still didn’t meet Sherlock’s.

“Bye then, Sherlock,” Mary said brightly. “Don’t work too hard.”

Sherlock waved dismissively over his shoulder. 

John returned after a moment, scowling, to find Sherlock texting furiously. “So, a new case?” John rubbed his hands together in front of his waist.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Mycroft being annoying.”

Confused, John stuttered,“ But, Lestrade …”

Sherlock threw his mobile onto the table beside his hair and sprang up like a panther. He crowded into John’s personal space and glared down at him. “You’ve been ignoring me all day. Last night you said we were still friends, but today you won’t even look at me. While I plan your wedding with your future wife.” He spat out the last word like it was bitter in his mouth. “You don’t get to do this, John.”

John took a step backwards and held up his hands, palms toward Sherlock. “I’m not …”

Sherlock cut him off. “You are. Ignoring me.” And with that, Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders and pulled him roughly forward then wound his arms tightly John’s back. He crushed their lips together with bruising force, working John’s lips apart fiercely. 

John pushed impotently against Sherlock’s chest but Sherlock’s arms were like bands of steel. Sherlock forced his head back until he could barely breathe; his mouth continued to work John’s lips apart until at last John opened his mouth to gasp for air, but Sherlock’s tongue filled his mouth, frantically exploring all the crannies and smooth spaces. “Sherlock,” John managed to gasp.

Sherlock raised his head, his eyes mere inches from John’s. “You can’t ignore that, John.You want it. As badly as I do.” His lips captured John’s again, this time gently, caressing and sucking John’s lips. And after a moment, John relaxed into the embrace, returning Sherlock’s kiss, opening his mouth and inviting more. Sherlock’s hands traveled upward to cup John’s head, thumbs stroking over John’s cheeks gently. 

“Say it,” Sherlock breathed into the kiss.

“Oh, god, yes.”

 

They were flushed and sweaty, side by side in Sherlock’s bed, the sheets tangled around their hips. What had started as after-sex tenderness had devolved into quiet arguing when Sherlock once again announced with certainty that John would cancel the wedding. 

John angrily pulled on his clothes and fled to the living room; Sherlock pulled on his dressing gown and followed.

“I can’t, Sherlock. You don’t understand.” Pain cracked John’s voice. “I’m an officer. And a doctor. There are certain expectations. I can’t just…” John paused and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I’m Catholic, Sherlock. The nuns at school were ... the priest...” John sat heavily in his chair, eyes closed, and took a shaky breath.

“You’re ashamed. Of this.” Sherlock pointed at John them himself.

John let out the deep breath he’d been holding. “Not ashamed. It’s just. People expect a certain thing of me. The army. Gay soldiers can serve now, but there’s still a bias. People talk. And people expect their doctor to be... to fit a mold.” John swallowed, licked his lips. “My family, Sherlock. They’re not like yours. My dad hasn’t spoken to my sister in fifteen years. She’s not welcome at family weddings. Even funerals. There’s no one in the family but me who talks to her. And when I stand up for her, I’m shouted down.”

“You really still care what people think. After the press crucified me - us. You still care.” Sherlock sounded astounded.

John shook his head, eyes tightly closed. “I can’t just... People want certain things of me. I can’t change that now, Sherlock. I’m thirty eight years old. It’s too late. I guess I’m… just a coward.”

“You invaded Afghanistan. You were wounded in action. Decorated for bravery. You’re no coward, John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft.

John turned his body fully toward Sherlock. “Lacking integrity, then, not courage. I don’t have the moral courage to live out what I feel. What I am.” John dropped his eyes and his voice. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, assessing John. “You want the perfect image, the wife, the house in the suburbs, white picket fence. But your heart’s not in it, John. You would rather wither and die than disturb what other people think of you.” He turned away from John, flouncing his dressing gown, then dropped into his chair with bare knees pulled to his chin. He stared ahead, not looking at John as he continued, “You care more about what people who you barely care about think than me.”

“It’s not like that, Sherlock. It’s also Mary. I love you but I love her too. It’s tearing me apart, to love you both.” 

Sherlock turned his head and regarded John coolly. “And what do you think it’s doing to me? I’ve developed a fondness for Mary I rarely feel for anyone. I don’t want to see her hurt.” He dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, looking up at John. “But I will not live my life to accommodate her, nor the public. It doesn’t bother me who knows about us.”

“That’s the difference in us, Sherlock.” John sounded defeated but he held Sherlock’s gaze. “You are so fully _you_ that you don’t have to care. Your family accepts you. You’ve never cared a whit what anyone thinks.” John’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I don’t have that.”

Sherlock’s face flushed, clearly angry. “What does that matter!”

John looked back up, anguish stark in the lines of his face. “It shouldn't. But it does, Sherlock. To me. It matters.”

Sherlock held John’s gaze, his mouth set in a bitter line. Finally, he dropped his eyes to the floor.

John sighed and sank into his chair. He held his face in one hand, rubbing his temples as if he had a sudden headache. He sighed again and picked up a newspaper. 

Silence stretched between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on tumblr for ficlets and Sherlock art reblogs: iriswallpaper.tumblr.com


End file.
